


Castoffs

by frausorge



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frausorge/pseuds/frausorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim gets dumped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castoffs

They're all in a good mood after chalking another one up in the win column, laughing and buzzing in the elevator lobby, ready to go out and paint the town red.

"No, orange! We paint orange!" Sanchez yells.

"Orange everywhere," Wilson promises ominously. Buster takes one look at his wide, crazed eyes and cracks right up.

"Where's Timmy?" he says when he catches his breath again. A couple of guys crane their necks to help search around the group, which is more difficult than it sounds because they're all bouncing around and no one's staying put long enough to count. But pretty soon it becomes clear that Tim's not with them. "I'll go get him," Buster says. Huff and Torres nod.

Tim has the room right next to Buster's, far enough from the lobby that it's quiet in the hallway. There's no sound from the room, either, no music or TV or conversation. Buster hesitates momentarily before rapping on the door. "Timmy!" he calls. "Hurry it up, man, we're waiting for you!" No answer. "Tim!"

"Go away," Tim calls through the door.

"What the fuck!" Buster yells. "Get your ass out here!"

After another minute the door swings open and Tim appears in the frame. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is hanging lank around his face, and he's holding a bottle of Jack by the neck. "I told you," he says, "go away." He pauses and scrubs a hand across his forehead. "Uh, I mean. Go without me, okay?"

"What the hell, Tim, what's wrong with you?"

Tim rolls his eyes and waves the bottle in a sweeping gesture. Then he takes a swig from it and wanders away into the room. Buster catches the door before it can fall shut and follows him in. "Hey," he says, pulling out his phone and texting Huff: _tl not up for it. go on w/o us_

 _aye aye_ , Huff sends back. Tim has stretched out on the bed, half-leaning against the headboard. He's still holding the bottle, and the level is low enough to make Buster a little anxious. He sits down on the edge of the mattress, near the foot of the bed.

"Hey," he repeats. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, right."

"A whole fucking pile of nothing," Tim says, drawing the words out like he's relishing them. "I got plenty of nothing, and nothing's plenty for me."

"Tim."

Tim's quiet, shaking the bottle in circles first one way and then the other, so that the whiskey sloshes and swirls.

"I just got dumped," he says abruptly.

"What?" Buster says.

"Dumped. Dropped. Kicked to the curb." Buster stares. "You know what that's like," Tim says- not meanly, but Buster still can't help flinching.

"I didn't even know you had a girlfriend," he says to cover it.

Tim laughs, dry and unamused. He swirls the bottle again, takes another drink, and then he looks Buster in the eye and says, "I didn't have a girlfriend."

Buster blinks. "You... had a boyfriend," he says. And ok, maybe it took him longer than it should have to work that out, but he just really didn't see that one coming. Tim lifts the bottle and toasts him with a sour smirk before drinking again.

"Ok, I'm cutting you off," Buster says. He leans forward and reaches for the bottle. Tim surrenders it easily enough, and Buster twists around to set it down on the ground at the foot of the bed. Then he turns back to Tim, who is looking at him calmly, quietly. Waiting.

Buster takes a breath. "You never told me," he says.

"Yeah, well, you know, I don't really tell people." Tim looks down at his hands and then shrugs. "I mean, _Let Timmy Smoke_ was cool and all, but I don't think they're going to be making T-shirts to say _Let Timmy Suck Cock_."

"I don't know," Buster says. "In San Francisco, they just might."

Tim barks out a laugh, then goes quiet again. When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark. "Would you?" he says.

"Make a shirt?" Buster asks.

"Let me," Tim says.

Buster's breath catches in his throat.

"You're drunk," he says when he can speak.

"Yeah," Tim says, nodding slowly. "Yeah."

Buster feels like he could use a drink himself. He turns and leans down, groping at the floor, but the bottle isn't where he thought he left it. He leans a little farther, and the mattress slips against the box spring under his weight. Tim makes a faint breathy sound behind him. Buster looks up to see Tim swallowing hard, then clapping a hand over his mouth and sliding off the bed.

It takes Buster a minute to right himself so he can follow Tim to the bathroom. He gets there just in time to pull Tim's hair back from his face while Tim leans over the bowl. He sets his other hand between Tim's shoulder blades and rubs a little. Despite everything, Tim's back is warm under his palm.

When Tim sits up, his face is pale and his eyes are sliding closed. Buster goes to the sink, wrestles a cup out of its plastic wrapper, and fills it with water.

"Here, rinse," he says. Tim does. Buster refills the cup and Tim drinks a little of the water before handing it back. Buster looks at him.

"You need to sleep this off," he says.

"Yeah," Tim says, only slightly hoarse.

Buster brings the trash can out with them from the bathroom and leaves it at the side of the bed. Then he goes back and gets some more water and leaves that on the nightstand. He stands there for another second looking at the folds of sheet that Tim's got clutched in one hand. "Feel better," he says finally.

"mm," Tim mumbles.

Back in his own room, Buster brushes his teeth and gets into bed.

He's still kind of hard. He doesn't quite know what to do with that.

Eventually he does the same thing he usually does with it.

When he's done, he rolls over to the dry side of the bed and goes to sleep.

  
They finish out the road trip in Florida, which is hot and muggy and unpleasant, and finally head back to San Francisco for an extended homestand. It's warm there, too, but at least the air cools down at night. Buster sleeps with the windows open in his apartment in the city, and it's such a relief. They play pretty decently, dropping a game here and there but taking each series overall, losing and retaking the division lead so regularly that Bochy starts joking with them about it instead of yelling. Then they repack their suitcases and head for Arizona, where the heat immediately grips them like a vise and everyone complains. And in all this time, neither of them says anything to the other.

It's not that he and Tim aren't speaking. They practice and play together, obviously, and they hang out, too, eating pizza and watching TV and jawing just like usual. What they don't do is talk about Tim's breakup, or his offer. If it was an offer, that is- sometimes Buster tries to recall exactly what Tim said, and he thinks maybe it was more like a hypothetical question. Then he mentally smacks himself and tells himself not to be a dumbass. It was what he knows it was. Tim clearly just thought better of it once he sobered up. Which is good.

Tim hid the hangover pretty well the next day, or at least it passed unnoticed among everyone else's, and he's hiding the blues pretty well, too. His eyes are clear and steady when he's on the mound, he hasn't gotten anywhere near that drunk again, and he comes along when the guys go out as a group. And as best as Buster can tell, even when he's alone he's not, like, sitting around throwing darts at his ex's photograph or anything. He's a little quieter than usual, and he's napping a little more often, but that's really it. You might not even notice if you weren't looking for it.

Sometimes Tim catches Buster's eye, and Buster can't breathe till Tim looks away. He doesn't think that's something Tim does on purpose, though. He thinks that's pretty much just on him.

  
He's caught off guard, then, when Tim looks over during a muted commercial and says, "So, I'm not drunk now."

"Uh. Ok," Buster says. They're in the room assigned to him, which has two queen beds, each of them sprawled across one. He has the remote in his hand, and he tightens his grip on it, running his thumb along the seam in the plastic.

Tim raises his eyebrows. "Ok?" he says, shifting as if to get up.

"Um, no, I mean- just, hold up," Buster says. He turns the TV all the way off, sets the remote down on the nightstand, and sits up to face Tim. Part of him has been trying not to think about this, but part of him has been anyway, and he's figured out more or less what he needs to say. "You're on the rebound."

Tim shakes his head. "I'm over him."

"What was his name?" Buster asks.

"Raul," Tim says, and his face clenches up.

"You're not over him," Buster says, as gently as he can.

Tim purses his lips. "How's Kristen?" he says after a moment.

Buster narrows his eyes. "Fine, last I heard." They don't talk very often, but she e-mails him photos of the twins, and she was in one of the last set, too, looking tired but happy enough.

"You're not completely over her, either."

"Ok, so I'm not. What's your point?"

"My point is, we're even."

Buster huffs out a breath that isn't quite a laugh.

"And also," Tim says, swinging his legs down over the edge of his bed, "you're not saying no."

Buster looks at Tim- fuck, Tim fucking Lincecum, Timmy with the Cy Young arm, and all they've been through together these last few years. Tim looks right back at him. And then, ok, yes, Buster's eyes drop to Tim's mouth, which curls up into a grin. Buster shakes his head and all he can do is laugh. "Ok," he says.

"Yeah?" Tim says. Buster nods.

Tim moves to sit next to him and puts a hand on Buster's knee, and Buster thinks maybe Tim's just going to go for it. But Tim wraps his other hand around the back of Buster's neck and kisses him. Tim's mouth is warm and unhurried, long kisses one after another, Tim's thumb rubbing at his nape and the heat of Tim's other hand resting on his thigh. Buster turns his head a little more into it and brings his arms up, pulling Tim closer. Tim's body is strong under his hands. Tim kisses his jaw, the side of his throat, and draws back enough to pull Buster's shirt off over his head. Buster runs his fingers up Tim's sides under his layers of T-shirts, and Tim smiles and yanks those off too.

Tim nudges Buster over onto his stomach and kisses his shoulders, his spine, the small of his back. Tim's cheek scrapes faintly against Buster's skin, and Buster groans. Tim's hands span his back and slide down over his ass. A thrill runs through him, but Tim doesn't linger there. Instead, he rolls Buster partway onto his side again, enough so that Tim can wrap one arm over Buster's hip and slide a hand into his track pants and around his dick.

"Fuck," Buster breathes. Tim pumps his hand and licks the back of Buster's neck.

"C'mon," Tim says, low, and Buster's whole body hitches forward in the circle of Tim's arm. Before he knows it he's on his back again, Tim pulling his pants away, settling between Buster's legs and fuck, yes, opening his mouth over Buster's cock. Buster wraps a hand into Tim's hair, and Tim gives him that funny stretched smile. Then Buster gives himself up to it, heat spiraling up and up, again and again, till he throws his head back and comes.

Tim sits up and wipes his mouth. Buster stretches a hand out, and Tim moves up to lie next to him, stroking the sweat off Buster's temple with his thumb. Buster huffs impatiently and kisses him.

After a bit, Buster goes ahead and moves his hand down from Tim's stomach onto his dick. Tim sucks in a breath but doesn't say anything. Buster shifts his palm a little, not really stroking, just finding the shape through the cloth.

"I don't have much experience with this," he warns Tim. "Or, uh, you know. Any."

Tim folds one arm up behind his head. "That's ok," he says sweetly. "You'll learn."

" _Hmmph_ ," Buster says, but he hooks his thumbs into Tim's waistband and pulls down sweatpants and boxers together. Tim's dick is hard up against his belly, and the skin of it is hot and soft under Buster's fingers. He fits his mouth over the head, and then he has to pause for a second because he's never felt anything like Tim's living weight on his tongue.

Buster lets a little spit pool in his mouth, tries to pay attention about his teeth and his throat, uses his hands to help where he can't reach, and it's going ok, he thinks. He hopes. He hears Tim moan, grins to himself as best he can and keeps going. Tim drops a hand onto his shoulder, breaths coming faster and louder, and then Tim pushes him off and curls nearly in half, jerking himself the rest of the way.

Buster kneels up on the mattress and watches until Tim flops back with a final groan. Then Buster stretches out alongside him. Tim reaches over and tugs at his arm until Buster rolls up against Tim's side, his forehead on Tim's shoulder, one leg crossed over Tim's thigh. Tim is shorter than him, but it works pretty well. Like it did with Kristen, Buster thinks. He lets himself think that, and then he takes a deep breath and wraps his arm closer across Tim's chest.

Tim strokes his hand back and forth in the small arc that he can reach across Buster's lower back and ass. The fourth or fifth time that he does it, Buster's dick twitches. And of course, with the way Buster's pressed up against Tim's leg, Tim can't help but feel that too.

"Hm?" he murmurs, pressing his fingertips down with more intent. Buster twitches again, laughs a little and hides his face in Tim's neck. Tim brings his arm up to pet Buster's hair instead.

"Hey, it's ok," he says. "We can do that next time."

Buster shifts back enough to look at Tim's face. "Next time?"

"If you want," Tim says. He looks at Buster calmly, quietly. Waiting.

"Yeah, ok," Buster says. He drops his head back down where it was, and Tim's hands hold him close.


End file.
